Broken - LS Silverii Page 0,24

sent wildlife scurrying again and signaled it was time to put their plan into motion.

Sue grabbed Justice by the shoulder, pulling his cut back to reveal the Colt model 1911, 45 caliber pistols suspended beneath each arm. “Shit dude, you ready for war?”

“Always,” Justice shouted over his engine’s rumble.

“SFFS,” Sue said.

Rage slapped his hand onto Justice’s other shoulder. “Fuck yeah—Savages Forever, Forever Savages.”

“Blood brothers first. Always first,” Justice reminded them as he motored away.

Chapter 12

“Fresh ink,” St. John asked.

Abigail nodded. She sat in a corner of the club’s commons area. It looked like the dance hall before the Savage Souls acquired the mountain resort. Wooden floors where the Cotton Eyed Joe was probably the hottest song in the mix back before mega-death tainted the system. Three pool tables and an open draught beer bar kept the brothers occupied throughout the mornings and nights.

“Hey, you okay? Was the ink your idea?” He stepped closer—her knees drew deeper against her chest.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” St. John said. She finally unlocked the void, and blinked.

“H-How may I serve you?” she stuttered the rehearsed opening line. Crossing and uncrossing her arms, she looked cold, dressed in nothing but short shorts and a bikini top. Her bare feet were filthy and lips bruised from giving endless blowjobs on demand and disciplinary slaps to the face.

He pined to help alleviate her pain. He’d had his own reasons for going through the prospect phases that led to full-patch membership, but he wondered what drove this innocent young woman to give up on life and surrender to these animals.

“I just want to sit and talk. Is that all right?” he asked while brushing the condoms and beer bottles off the sofa.

“I guess so, but don’t get me in trouble with the blood brothers. That one over there hates me,” she started to cry as words formed on the blisters and skin breaks around her mouth.

“Vengeance is an animal. He hates everyone except his kids.” St. John tried a laugh to lighten the mood. Uncertain about what to say next, he wanted to just listen to her story without judgment.

“Why are you doing this? You got a death wish? You know I’m property—no being nice to the property.” The recited words were more from forced feeding than personal choice. “Thanks to you holding the door open this morning, I got another mouth full of Justice’s giant dick.” She grabbed her throat and imitated gagging.

“I just wanted to talk to you. We get girls in here all the time, but nothing like you. I’d bet you’ve never used a drug in your life—except legal ones. Something tragic happened. It broke you.” St. John stopped talking as she lowered her face into both hands and began to sob. “Didn’t mean to upset you—something about you. Something special and strong,” he whispered.

“I’m nothing but property. I died weeks ago, and this is my purgatory. Please, either shove your dick in my mouth or go away. He’ll discipline me if I just talk to anyone.”

“I’m not going to make you give me a blowjob. I wish you would get out of here. Escape.”

“No blowjob? You must be the one Fury is fucking,” she accused, her eyes downcast.

“What? Fury, the blood brother? No. I’m just not going to treat you like an animal, because I can sense something is hurting inside of you. This isn’t really the life you want. Am I right?”

Her dull eyes began to moisten blue again. Dirt-stained toes curled beneath broken fingernails as she coiled up to avoid further conversation. It was obvious he’d struck a nerve. She was uncomfortable—almost fearful that he’d exposed her truths.

“I’ll never tell,” St. John whispered.

“What the fuck you love birds chirping about?” Vengeance’s knuckled backhand swiped across Abigail’s face. She didn’t even scream out anymore.

St. John jolted up off the couch. He jammed both fist into the club’s sergeant-at-arms’ chest. Vengeance stumbled back over a chair, caught off guard. He cursed, pressing to get up off the overturned recliner. St. John raised a deliberate eyebrow and tilted his head, while he thrust his chest out in defiance of the blood brother. He saw Abigail whimpering in a small huddle on the couch. His temper was rising toward explosion.

“You just got yourself put in the Box, motherfucker.” Vengeance scowled.

St. John shifted his right foot to the rear in a basic fighting stance. His fists relaxed but ready. Hearing faded as his body prepared for combat. The biker was used to the effects of